Stained With Crimson
by FrenchPea
Summary: A spur-of-the-moment story. Very dark and slightly violent. Please don't kill me after you read this.


# This story idea occurred while I was lying in bed last night. I would caution you; it's not a happy story and it deals with suicide. So I'm rating it R for the content. It is kind of disturbing and definitely not a happy story. I am not going to tell you whose first person I wrote in; if you can't figure that out then you may have a few problems. This idea presented itself to me and I simply had to pursue it. Feedback is ALWAYS appreciated. It helps to feed the monster. Note: this story never happened as far as I'm concerned. It has nothing to do with anything else I've ever written for I-man. It hopefully will never happen. So don't flame me. I would reveal more but I don't want to let on what exactly the story's about. So please read and …enjoy?… maybe not… Ohhh yeah, and the music that goes along very well with this cheerful little story is "Hemorrhage (In My Hands)" by Fuel, along with "Innocent" by that same group. It sets the mood for this little short story.

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# Stained With Crimson

I am sitting here with my face in my hands and wondering why.

Why did I have to do this? Why am I what I am? Why?

It's no use; it's over now. You're lying there, growing colder by the minute, emotionless and frozen as wax. And there's nothing I can do to stop it.

I feel tears in my eyes for you and I wonder why. I wonder why I am crying for you. You are so insignificant now, like a scrap of paper blown in the wind. 

I wonder why I had to have it. What was the use? And now, I've wasted this life. Wasted, wasted. Completely. So much is left undone.

I stand up slowly and glance over at the jar that holds all that remains of you. The damn thing. I walk over to where you're lying, stiff and cold. Your face is peaceful; that's very little consolation. I sit down on the cold floor and bury my face in my arms, the starchy, stiff fabric of the white coat I'm wearing rubbing against my face.

I have the urge to throw the jar against the wall. To destroy it and then destroy myself. But I know I won't; my work is far from over now. And that damn jar's contents are all that's left of you

I understand more now. You were special to me. I killed you. I killed you, like I kill everything that's special to me. It's my fault, not yours.

There are tears running down my face in full force now, blurring my vision painfully so I can barely see. I stumble upwards, still wondering why this remorse at an act I had played over and over in my mind. My tears drip onto you, onto the sheet that covers your prone form. I swipe my hand across my face, so I can see you.

You're lying there, brown curls spilling across your forehead. There's even a slight smile on your face. Dammit. I'm crying again, sobs are ripping up through my throat. I'm glad there's no one else here to see this. What would they say?

I reach out one hand, tearing off the glove that has your blood on it, to stroke those curls back. Dammit! Why did I do this? It's getting to me now. I'm still sobbing, breathing in short, painful gasps. That grief for what I did to you, thicker and blacker than any smothering blanket, is settling over my head so I can't think of anything but how sorry I am and how I'll never speak to you again, never, never, never...

I am crying even harder now, tears spilling over my eyes in waves, trying to look down at you, at your still form, wondering what your brown eyes see now. Now that you're gone and you've left me here.

It took a while for me to realize that you were really gone. At first I was excited because I had that damn thing out of your head. And then I realized slowly that you were dead. Dead, and there was nothing I could do to change that. That's when it all hit me.

I'm still standing here, my tears spilling onto your chest and shoulders. I asked them to leave you here so I could say goodbye. 

Now I'm seeing I can't do that.

God dammit, why do I feel this way about your death? I never had any problems killing them before. It seemed easy, natural. And now this.

I'll pay for what I did to you, I will, I swear.

The knife with your blood on it is still lying right there. The idiots, they left that too. I can see now what I've got to do. 

I pick up the knife, by the blade and it cuts my fingers. I feel nothing, in the numb state of shock I'm in, but see my blood welling up, onto the knife, and it slips to the floor with a small metallic clang. I pick it up again, looking at it, not feeling. I hold it to my wrist, gently, not cutting yet. I'll be dead by the time any of them find me. Too bad for them I know the _right way to slit my wrists. _

I look over at you and smile a little. We'll be together soon enough. I hope.I hold the blade to my wrist and press down just enough, still smiling. The skin is pierced and I slide the knife across the punctured skin, detachedly feeling the veins and arteries popping.

A gush of blood greets me, and I drop the knife, suddenly dizzy. I bend down to pick it up and slit my other wrist, crimson tides spilling over onto my white coat and the white floor, staining, staining...

I am dizzy and tired now, glorying in the beautiful crimson of my blood. Like rubies. I push you aside and lie down next to you, spilling blood on the sheet.

My world is tinged with crimson now, slowly encroaching upon my vision. I sigh as my eyelids begin to droop, feeling heavy. I can feel my lips moving slowly at the same time that I hear my voice, as though far away, murmuring, "I'm sorry."

My vision is almost completely red now, my eyelids so heavy I can barely support them, but I can still see you, that smile on your face, and I can feel a smile tugging the corners of my own lips. Time to relinquish, now. I'll see you soon, I hope. We can be there together. I can only hope you'll forgive me...

I can't feel pain, only the certainty that my end is very near now. I feel still a trickle of blood flowing out of my ruptured veins, and my vision is closing over.

The red, it's so beautiful, my eyes are closing now. I can feel my heart slowing now, my breathing becoming labored. I feel a smile on my lips and take your hand, my own limbs feeling like lead.

I am certain now that this is the right thing.

I close my eyes.


End file.
